


standing in it with me

by wearethewitches



Series: sixty-seven thousand miles an hour | the doctor is not a monk [9]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Angst and Feels, Dancing, F/F, Gen, Party, Prompt Fill, Rescue Missions, The usual suspects - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26495770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: The Doctor has already run out of thatlittle timein too many ways to count.or, the Doctor gets a message from her wife, asking her husband to attend a gala.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/River Song, Thirteenth Doctor/River Song (Data Ghost)
Series: sixty-seven thousand miles an hour | the doctor is not a monk [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1652698
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	standing in it with me

The TARDIS glows orange and blue, the chattering of the Doctor’s children filling the space in a way only children can. Josefa and Holly giggle on the sidelines in their matching striped bobble hats, while a three-way argument between Aday, Dekon and Grace goes on over who gets to hold Jenny’s hand can easily be called the loudest disruption. Jenny herself isn’t exactly stopping them either, which doesn’t help.

Despite this, the Doctor _revels_ in the noise, relieved that her coterie of Time Lord children are happy and excited for the day-trip they’re going on. The Doctor has been planning this for two weeks, trying to find somewhere Susan and Jenny can take the bunch of them without there being a surprise invasion, monster or rebellion to ruin the day – especially when the Doctor won’t be accompanying them to supervise.

Landing the TARDIS at the universe’s fifth best theme park – winter themed, from the 27th Century – the Doctor catches the attention of her brood with a short, “Oi, you lot. Line up.”

The arguments cease, exclamations of joy taking over the group. Susan glides towards the TARDIS doors, fixing her lavender gloves as she slips past her young aunts and uncles to the front of the line. Set in pairs, the sixteen of them in their blue jumpers, hats, scarves, jackets and other miscellaneous winter clothes are bracketed at either end by Susan and Jenny, in a system they worked out some time in the last fifteen years. Of course, despite being twenty-three years of age, her children still look the same as they did when she first saw them – their inherited longevity stalling what would have most definitely been a much shorter lifespan. Some of them might have cut their hair and all of them had completed at least the basics of a Gallifreyan child’s general education – but over-all, they hadn’t much changed at all.

This, of course, did make it quite hard for the Doctor at times. Having been so used to Humans for centuries, the Doctor could sometimes become frustrated at the relative time it takes for them to grow, in comparison. It also makes it difficult for her to fully enjoy her adventures…not to say she doesn’t love her children, because she really, really does- but this sojourn, planned two weeks ahead, was invented for a reason.

“Everyone ready to go?” She asks, getting affirmative replies either out loud or in her head. “Brilliant. Susan? Jenny?”

“We’ll be fine, grandfather,” says Susan, slightly condescendingly. The Doctor doesn’t fault her – she _had_ been bothering Susan with this question for the last five days. Jenny silently waves her off, before Susan opens the TARDIS door, a chorus of goodbyes ringing out.

“Have a good trip!” The Doctor calls out, waiting until Jenny had closed the doors to look away, turning back to the TARDIS console and asking the old girl, “Show me?”

The screen flickers, showing the message River had sent out into the big wide universe, searching for a Doctor who’d help her with a problem on the planet of Duchamp 349. Not able to remember attending the event in question River had sent an invite for, the Doctor had decided after much thought – mostly considering the fact that River doesn’t know her current face by the time she dies – that she’d go undercover. She’d dress up and everything!

River had put down a dress-code, with a TARDIS serial number meant for a specific rack in the wardrobe, which usually would be ignored or attempted to wear, only to think it looks ridiculous on them – so the Doctor had a ready-set disguise. Duchamp 349, after a little research, seems to be known for conformity, in any case; the average citizen there has brown hair and wears red or blue, the only exceptions being the matriarchs and royalty, who’re blonde.

“…wait a mo,” the Doctor mutters, hand half-way raised towards the indicated suit. She shakes her head, looking at her hair. _Of all the things to have changed in regeneration,_ she huffs, having been happily brunette or at least, dark-haired or greying since her seventh regeneration. Even before then, she’d only been blonde three times! Groaning, the Doctor ignores the clothing rack, trying to think through this particular problem.

The TARDIS sends her a soothing feeling through their connection and the Doctor lets her calm her, figuring a perception filter will do well enough. Looking back at the rack of suits, she goes to grab the one River indicated in her message, only for the TARDIS to interrupt her again – redirecting her gaze to the nearby matching dress in blue.

Her hearts pound. “No,” she refuses, “I am _not_ wearing a dress.” The TARDIS has a warning tone, the type that the Doctor wants to ignore, but it becomes even more pressing. The TARDIS almost even says to her, _you’ll be in danger, you’ll get caught, you can’t afford to make mistakes._

An ugly feeling rising in her chest, the Doctor wonders what sort of adventure River is about to drag her on, now. The TARDIS urges her to wear the dress again.

 _“Fine!”_ she hisses, grabbing the nearest one and stalking over to the main area of the wardrobe, changing fitfully. Her boots are discarded and her coat, flung over a chair, joined by her shirts and trousers, braces hanging loose. The dress is a bright, electric blue, more of a long shirt than the sort of dresses the Doctor has seen her companions wear in the past, fluttery around her knees, a flat plane of fabric draped over her front, concealing her figure.

 _At least it isn’t…showy,_ she thinks, her one concession. It’s too long and she’d wear trousers, if she could. There’s a high neck, like her shirts, but it’s heavier and doesn’t stretch. The Doctor abhors it. She _despises_ this dress.

“…not doing it,” the Time Lord mutters, before pulling it off and throwing it where she can’t see it anymore, returning to River’s original choice of suits. The scarlet isn’t her personal preference, but it’s better than the dress – until she tries it on and realises it’s fitted to Chinny’s proportions.

The TARDIS grumbles, then finally directs her a little off the beaten path, two racks away from the mess of almost-neon. The red and blues are deeper, here. The Doctor finds herself looking at a piece of clothing that has the look of a dress, but actually has legs among what only _looks_ like a skirt, in navy blue.

Inspecting it, the Doctor grudgingly says, “Better.” She tries it on, feeling a cool breeze the TARDIS is surely making, trying to hurry her up. The jumpsuit goes on and _maybe,_ the Doctor could get used to this. _It’s only for my disguise,_ she reminds herself, before pulling on her boots and untucking the jumpsuit from the cuffs when the Old Girl complains.

Finally – _finally_ – she gets back to the console room, only remembering to fetch her sonic and psychic paper from her coat when the TARDIS beeps at her. The Doctor groans at her own stupidity, smacking her forehead before turning back to retrieve them, along with a perception filter on a gold chain necklace.

By the time she arrives at the party, it’s already begun. She parks her TARDIS in an out-of-the-way side street, wandering up to the building with her invitation on the psychic paper, standing in line behind a female humanoid in a splendorous blue dress. Hearing the music from inside, the Doctor starts getting excited again, positively bouncing as the person in front of her moves onwards.

“Welcome to the ninetieth annual Greeting Gala for the Mothers of Duchamp System,” says the greeter, eyes perfectly glued to her face, rather than her hair due to her perception filter, “Your invitation, madam?”

“Here you go,” she offers the psychic paper, watching them accept it. “Great to be here!”

The greeter’s smile is fake as they wave her towards the ballroom. The Doctor skids past, eagerly entering and slipping into the crowds, reading the room.

It’s busy. There are nearly four hundred people here, at the very least and still arriving. Being fashionably late has always been a common human tradition throughout history and apparently, it lives on here, on Duchamp 349. The conformity she’d noted, however, is obvious. Ladies dress in blue and men in red, respectively moving counter-clockwise and clockwise through the room – the Doctor lucky enough to have followed that tradition by accident – with different coloured drinks and certain gender-specific traditions, like the way the women incline their arms in greeting and how the men tap their foreheads in respect.

Towards the centre of the room, there’s some kind of commotion, many people having left the carousel to stand nearby the spectacle. Curious, the Doctor joins them after a half-turn of the room, taking a glass of something bubbly and green that all the women are drinking, faking a sip. Amongst all the brunettes, it’s easy for her to catch the flash of golden curls and a familiar laugh.

Ah.

“There she is,” the Doctor mutters, quickly turning away from her wife and making to do some more reconnaissance throughout the ballroom, only for the music to suddenly become twice as loud than what it was before. The Doctor freezes as three men in red step in her way, one after the other, tapping their foreheads and holding out their hands.

Paralysed with confusion, the Doctor looks around for inspiration, seeing women around the ballroom accepting various hands and get into the familiar positioning for a basic waltz. No-one is declining dances.

“Madam?” says one of the three, clearly impatient. The Doctor narrows her eyes at him, then scopes out the other two. She doesn’t know if this body can dance and one last glance around the room proves that only River isn’t joining them, surrounded by half a dozen women with blasters tucked into their belts, also removed from the festivities.

“Waltzes are not my favourite,” she warns the men, the impatient one tapping his forehead again before leaving, finding another nearby woman to offer his hand to. The two remaining men wait silently and reluctantly, the Doctor decides on the one who is a quarter-inch closer to her, watching his face light up in delight.

“My thanks, Madam! I know I am but young, but my qualifications speak for themselves,” he says to her, as if answering some kind of question she’d yet to pose. Readying her for a waltz, he politely leads her into a starting position, marked by a twinkle on the floor, still speaking. “I applied for my invitation several years ago and I worked hard to gain entry with it. May I inquire as to your title?”

“Doctor,” the Doctor allows, getting an inkling as to what this gala really is.

“A physician of the body, mind or other sciences, Madam Doctor?”

“All of them,” she replies, just in time for the waltz to begin. The man’s jaw drops and it’s only what seems to be an innate sense of rhythm that has her leading them through the first few steps, when he forgets to move. “And you?”

The man swallows audibly, then murmurs, “I am but a humble mechanical engineer, working under guidance of the Great Mothership. You must be a wise and important tool of the Council, to be a doctor of so many things.”

“My education was pretty varied, yeah, but I’m no tool,” says the Doctor, fishing. “Why? Did you think I was?”

He reddens, twirling her under his arm. The Doctor finds she rather enjoys being on this side of the dance – she doesn’t have to be the one knowing where they’re going on the dancefloor. While she spins, the Duchampian male seems to be thinking up his answer.

“I thought that you were an outlier,” he finally replies, sounding as if he thinks these words will be his last. “You weren’t looking at the men and this is a Greeting Gala, where those who have gained their formal invitations can meet a Madam and become her slave and husband, in all things. You are not here to collect us. You are here to watch us.”

“I’m here,” the Doctor decides to tell him, “because that blonde woman everyone was staring at invited me. I have no idea what she wants from me, only that she needed me here: so here I am.” She watches his expression clear, something like raw disbelief showing. The Doctor feels something like pity, or maybe companionship. “Tell me, what’s your name?”

Stuttering, he says, “Erik.”

“Erik. Nice name – I once knew an Erik. Hairy man, lots of children and very good with an axe,” the Doctor babbles, putting him off-guard so she can ask questions and actually get useful answers. At his wide eyes, she demands of him, “Name three things wrong with this room, Erik.”

“Wrong? You,” he says, immediately, “and the Lady Madam of golden hair. She is no royal. She is an anomaly.”

“That’s two.”

“Third,” Erik says, voice stronger this time as he looks her in the eye, “She has a chain around her ankle tying her to the floor.”

The Doctor’s blood runs cold.

“I’ve only seen it once, when I arrived,” he continues. “She was here when there were few arrivals and I was one of the first. I was excited and careless and I was watching from the sidelines. The dress she wears is long enough to conceal it, except when she stretches out far enough. Her guards have stopped her from moving and I think someone was removed, when they dropped their beverage in shock upon sighting it.”

“She’s trapped,” the Doctor says, mind running wild. River invited her to this gala _specifically,_ meaning she must have already been captured when she called for him. It makes sense, now, why the man-version of her would have needed to follow the dress code so strictly; he might not have even been allowed in, if he wore something other than red.

Erik twirls her again, asking, “Who are you? The Great Mothership-”

“What is the Great Mothership?” the Doctor interrupts him, “What’s the difference between calling them the Mothers of Duchamp and the Great Mothership? And if this is a matriarchal society, why do men lead the dances?”

Wearing his earlier flabbergasted expression again, Erik loses his words for a few moments before answering her. “The Mothers of Duchamp each control a planetary body in the Duchamp System. The Great Mothership is the conglomerate organisation that the Lady Mothers control. And we lead the dances, because it gives us a chance to highlight how attractive we look beside you.”

“You’re good at answering questions, Erik,” the Doctor praises, “Thanks for that. Now, I just need you to answer a few more-”

But the waltz has ended, as has the music. She stops speaking, like the rest of the ballroom, eyes being drawn to the stage in front of the band where thirty-nine women stand, dressed in regal purples and plums. An even amount of each, with a single extra plum, the Doctor realises.

“The night has begun!” calls the most centred woman in purple, eyes bright and her pale brown hair bundled on top of her hair inside a silver crown. “Close the doors!”

Behind her, the Doctor hears a low _boom_ – probably the doors.

“I am Mother Satana,” says the woman, Mother Satana, “and I welcome you to my home this evening for the ninetieth Greeting Gala for our Great Mothership. Some of you ladies may have already found some chattel, though I’m afraid some of them may find their way into our clutches!” She laughs, a rumble of giggles and amused agreement echoing through the ballroom.

Satana smiles, gesturing to the centre of the room, where River silently glowers at her, smile all teeth. It’s no surprise to the Doctor that barely any of her true anger is showing – but it’s all in her eyes, now.

“You may have also met our newest Princess of Duchamp, though she’s wily – be careful! She has _claws_ , gentlemen. The Great Mothership also has the pleasure of introducing our late Council Mother’s successor: Mother Freesia.” She gestures to a middle-aged woman in plum, who opens her arms wide to accept their adulations.

The Doctor cautiously claps, watching Erik’s reaction. He seems excited. Catching her eye, he grins at her, leaning in to whisper to her under the cover of the applause, “Council Mother Alana died in her sleep two cycles ago! Mother Freesia is becoming a Council member, meaning-”

“We thank you for your service, Council Mother!” Satana interrupts, Erik falling silent as she turns to her left, to the right of the ballroom. Her arm rises. “And now, we welcome your replacement, the new Lady Mother…”

And out from the shadows, walks Missy.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The Doctor’s words are flat – and unfortunately are said aloud in the silent moment before Satana says her name. All eyes fall on her, but the Doctor ignores them, striding forwards through the crowds to confront her nemesis, pushing past several Duchampian men and women. “What’s your grand plan, this time? Conquer the Duchamp System?”

“Dear Doctor,” purrs Missy, eyelashes fluttering in a terrible façade of innocence. “You’re ruining the gala, pet.”

“And you need to take some acting classes,” she replies shortly, pissed off as she points towards River. “Why is my wife tied up?”

“Leverage, dearie,” Missy drops the act, Satana spluttering on stage as the rest of the Great Mothership looks on in shock. “They owe us a few deaths, you see.”

“Deaths? How?”

“What’s that thing your mongrel wife says… _spoilers?”_ The other Time Lord teases, before Satana finally regains her voice.

“Mother Missaia, what is this?”

Missy rolls her eyes, raising her voice to say, “It’s a coup, darling.” Throughout the ballroom, Judoon suddenly begin to teleport in, the crowd screaming at their entrance. “Disabled your nasty anti-teleporter technology. Ghastly stuff. I do believe the thirty-nine of you are now going to be arrested for murder, theft, tax evasion…all the good stuff.”

“Missy!” The Doctor shouts over the chaos, but the ballroom is riotous and she gets pushed around, lost in the scuffle – until finally, a hand takes her own, dragging her towards a beacon of gold. _River,_ the Doctor realises, registering Erik’s stone grip as the dozen guards around River melt into the crowd, instead of remaining with her. Faintly, she can see the thirty-nine Mothers attempting to use various teleporting technologies to escape, but Missy is being catty back at them, when they find they can’t leave.

“Doctor- Doctor, is that really you?” River asks her and part of the Doctor is pleased that the first thing her wife says is her name.

“Yep. Don’t worry,” she says, beaming at the archaeologist, “this isn’t what I usually wear.”

River lets out a blustering breath, almost laughing to herself as she works two hands at the cuff around her ankle. She looks exhausted, fingers fumbling at the electronic latch. The Doctor detaches herself from Erik, coming close to her wife so she can remove her hands, bringing the sonic out for the first time to undo them with a quiet buzz. The moment they snap off, River reaches for her face, cupping her cheek. The Doctor revels in the contact – and makes sure not to show a smidgeon of longing, as she does.

“Time to go,” she says, before River leans in to kiss her in clear gratitude. The Doctor welcomes it, but Erik is the one to provide her excuse to stop, shaking her shoulder.

“We’ve got to get out of here!”

“Sure! I’ve got a ship nearby,” she replies, only belatedly noting River’s high temperature and the way her shoulders are going limp. _She’s ill – she’s going to faint,_ the Doctor realises, reaching forwards in time to catch her before she drops completely.

Swinging her into her arms, the Doctor ignores the burn and wordlessly tells Erik to clear a path, which he does _fabulously,_ getting them all the way to the door that Missy arrived through. _Clever Erik,_ she thinks upon feeling the perception filter. Erik is clearly not in the right frame of mind, too hopped up on adrenaline and being a smarty-pants for it to have worked properly.

“In, in, in,” she chants, Erik faltering at the last moment until she nudges past him to push through the door into a corridor. She can hear him following, wishing that Missy wasn’t such a complicated being – wishing that she could put the Duchamp System over River’s wellbeing.

She’ll deal with Missy later, if only to find out what she meant by being owed _deaths._

The corridors themselves are a warren of the usual backstage type, but Erik must be passingly familiar with them, because he leads her to an emergency exit – one that coincidentally leads into the same street she parked the TARDIS.

“Lovely,” the Doctor breathes, looking at Erik. “Right, you were amazing, don’t forget that.”

“I- I won’t,” says Erik, eyes glued to the police box. He seems in awe as he looks back at her, mumbling, “I know you. You’re _the_ Doctor, aren’t you?”

“You know me?” The Doctor asks, curious, before River shifts in her arms. Adjusting her grip, the Doctor deliberately sets aside the topic, pushing the TARDIS doors open with her foot. Erik can follow her inside, if he wants to – he seems like a good fit, for an adventure or two. He could probably help her figure out this nonsense on Duchamp 349.

Still unconscious and burning up in comparison to her usual temperature, the Doctor takes River through the TARDIS to the medbay, faintly hearing Erik’s heavier footsteps behind her. She gets River hooked up to a scanner and after a moment of analysing the results, organises a saline and nutrient drip.

“You’re deficient,” she murmurs to her, telling her what she’s doing. “You’ve not had proper food or water for a while, sweetheart. Did you go on strike? I’d believe that, especially if something nefarious was going on…”

When there comes the moment that there is nothing else to be done, the Doctor finally turns to face Erik, who stands in the door to the medbay with an almost eager expression.

“You’re the Doctor,” he repeats, as if assuring himself.

“I’m the Doctor,” she replies, confirming that. Brushing her hands on her jumpsuit, she attempts to roll up her sleeves instinctually, but her current outfit doesn’t react as her coat does, sliding up and then falling down again, not enough fabric to bunch up the same way. “How do you know me?” she asks, again.

“I know your sons,” Erik informs her, hearts fluttering in her chest at his words. “Roma Khan and Zidon of Earth.”

The Doctor purses her lips, thinking _spoilers_ – wondering at what point that Roma and Zidon, her Tivolian and Thal sons, start travelling together. _I’m going to have to start avoiding places they’ve been,_ she thinks, before suddenly reeling back in horror.

**_They owe us a few deaths, you see._ **

“What happened when you met them?” The Doctor demands, terrified. “Did they change? Were they killed?”

Erik blanches, taking a step back at her interrogation, stuttering, “They- he- it’s complicated, very complicated. I don’t know everything. I was barely a man at the time! They’re the ones that got me my invitation to the Greeting Gala-”

She has to stop him. “Shush,” she interrupts, regretting her own questions. “I shouldn’t have asked you to tell me,” the Doctor apologises, saying, “I’m a time traveller and my children are all still that: children.”

Erik wilts. “They are?” The mention of time travel doesn’t confuse him, so the Doctor assumes it’s because he’s a companion. Something in her chest squeezes tight at the idea of her charges growing up, going on their own adventures and finding companions – dying and regenerating in their own time.

“You should go home,” she tells him. “We’re not meant to be meeting like this, out of sync, timelines crossing.”

“But-” he starts, only to stop, mouth clamping shut. Erik fidgets, his hands brushing before he nods. “I’ll see you again,” he promises.

“Agreed. Next time I’m in the Duchamp System, will definitely pop around for a visit.”

She escorts Erik out of the TARDIS, watching him walk away and look back twice, before she drives off and lets the TARDIS meander through the Vortex at her own will. River still sleeps in the medbay. The Doctor watches her rest, the exhaustion fading from her face as the hours slip by.

_I shouldn’t have called her my wife in front of everyone like that. She’ll remember me. She shouldn’t remember me._

Agitated, the Doctor takes the easy route – plodding through to the designated Simulation Room, where she and her children can visit the Library and consult with the Time Lord Matrix. She sits down on a comfortable bean-bag and puts on the required headset, finding herself in a white living room with flat, grey sofas.

River’s data-ghost, reading a story to Charlotte on one of said sofas, looks up at her arrival. “My love,” she greets, reaching out with her only spare arm – the other wrapped around Charlotte’s shoulders.

The Doctor slips into her embrace, resting her full weight on River’s body. She gets down to brass tacks. “What do you remember of Duchamp 349?”

“Matriarchal system that decided I would be their proverbial Rapunzel?” A nod. River hums, careful as she says, “Not much. I knew I was there, then I woke up in the TARDIS medbay with no idea how I got there, much less why you’d make me forget our adventure. I had to send you my own message, I do remember that.”

“Really?”

Her wife hums agreeably. “Old Mum will give you the right serum to give me. Just do me a favour, first.”

“Anything,” the Doctor swears.

River laughs. “Be careful with that,” she teases, “I could ask for something you’d never wish to give.”

“You wouldn’t,” replies the Doctor, trusting her. River looks at her with so much love and the Doctor, sometimes – _sometimes_ – can’t believe what she sees. But then she’ll remember Darillium and the _Harmony and Redemption_ cruise-liner – the heartfelt, _heartbroken_ speech about stars and sunsets and love that River gave King Hydroflax’s body.

“I love you,” she says, meaning every word.

River kisses her and the Doctor wishes that it weren’t all a simulation – that the air wasn’t pixelated and that when River tugged on her lip with her teeth just so, she could feel it. _Happy ever after doesn't mean forever. It just means time. A little time._ Wasn’t that what River said to her on the balcony?

A little time.

The Doctor has already run out of that _little time_ in too many ways to count.

“What do you want me to do?” she asks.

River smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: surprise  
> prompt #2: formal wear
> 
> So, this fic was made to be some kind of sneak peak-ish prequel/future sequel to a plotline I've got going on with Roma and Zidon, which is hinted at here (expect to see Erik again!), but then turned into a sort of River-centric feels fic + bonus world-building...literally.
> 
> And anyway, yeah, if this fic feels like it could be longer, that sounds about right - I had wanted to make this a 5+1, but the first chapter ran away with me. Missy was supposed to have a bigger role and there were also supposed to be more secret identity shenanigans, but Missy got introduced and 13 decided she most definitely has had enough of the Master's antics, recently.
> 
> Very exhausted, our Doctor. Very fun to torture her, too.
> 
> As always, I take prompts for this 'verse and here's my [tumblr](http://wearethewitches.tumblr.com), for the enterprising nerd.


End file.
